


Each Thought a Loneliness

by oneill



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneill/pseuds/oneill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the fic_promptly prompt: Natsume Yuujinchou, Natori and Natsume, body-writing</p>
            </blockquote>





	Each Thought a Loneliness

**Author's Note:**

> Applicable archive warnings are Non-Con and possibly Underage--not used because these likely connote something very different from what happens here. There is no sex, but there is a certain degree of gratification that one party neither consents to nor is informed of.

"They're not going to tear my ears off, are they?" Natsume asked as he skinned out of his shirt, then lay on his stomach on the shikibuton like Natori had instructed. It felt a little awkward, but Natori was busy setting out his supplies anyway.

"No, these things rarely work the way they do in the stories," Natori said, chuckling. Natsume heard a quiet _tak_ that must have been the inkstone on the table. "The spell will cover only your back. Think of it as a stronger version of the spell Hiiragi used to protect you during the Moon-Splitting Festival."

"I guess that makes sense."

The mattress smelled faintly familiar. It took Natsume a moment to realize that it smelled like Natori, which made sense but still caught him off-guard. He turned his head to the side to watch instead. Natori poured a few drops of water from a small pot into one end of the inkstone, then pressed an inkstick into it at an angle. Soft light filtered in through the window, catching his arm as he worked. The lizard birthmark skittered up his wrist and disappeared over the back of his hand.

_Rrr-chirr rrr-chirr rrr-chirr rrr-chirr . . ._

The sound as he ground the stick in regular circles was louder than Natsume expected. In fact, he felt certain it was louder than it should have been. It was like Natori had the inkstone right up against his ear, even though he was across the room. Natsume almost asked about it--whether it had something to do with his spiritual abilities--but Natori was muttering something as he ground the ink, his eyes fixed on the stone.

It might have been a sutra. Natsume couldn't hear it over the grinding.

He wasn't sure whether the sound relaxed him or made the roots of his teeth ache. Could one sound do both? He could feel his eardrums pulsing in time to the rotations, shrinking back from the sound.

_. . . rrr-chirr rrr-chirr rrr-chirr rrr-chirr . . ._

A series of sharp taps abruptly replaced it, snapping Natsume out of the doze he hadn't realized he'd fallen into. Natori rose from the table. His kimono rustled as he moved, amplified by the sudden silence. He padded across the room and sat back down, his knees just touching Natsume's left hip.

"Natsume? Are you all right?"

"What? Y--yeah."

"I'll start writing, then."

"Okay."

Natsume flinched as the brush touched his shoulder, expecting the ink to be cold. It was uncomfortably warm instead. Not burning, or even close to it. Just . . . warm . . . and wet . . . and with his eyes closed, it could almost be--he could almost imagine that Natori's tongue--

Not that he imagined anything like _that_. It just felt weird. That was all.

He tried to focus on the shape of the strokes, to guess at the characters from the feel of them, but he didn't recognize even one. Maybe they were archaic forms, like the ones he'd seen on some of the ayakashi masks. He could usually work those out, after he'd looked at them for a while, but they weren't familiar enough to tell by touch. Or maybe it was the same strange writing that filled his grandmother's book.

Maybe he just couldn't concentrate.

The brush flowed down his back, leaving trails of creamy, unnaturally warm ink in its wake. Each line stopped just at his waist, then started over again at his shoulders. His breathing shallowed each time the brush glided closer to the base of his spine, and the strokes crept slowly inward with each new line. When they slipped into the small of his back, he sucked in a breath, his fingers curling in the quilt.

The brush pulled away immediately.

"Natsume?" Natori said.

"Sorry." Natsume forced his hand open. "Did I mess up the spell?"

"No, I just want to make sure you're all right."

Natsume crossed his arms and buried his face in them. "I'm fine," he said. If he were less awkward--if he didn't shy away from other people all the time--something like this wouldn't affect him so much, would it?

Silence. Then: "Are you sure? It doesn't hurt anywhere?"

"No," Natsume said slowly. It was almost the truth.

"This is important, Natsume. I've placed quite a bit of my power in this ink. If you're reacting to it badly, well . . . You can think of it as an allergy, and it can be just as serious."

"My back doesn't hurt at all, Natori-san." There. That was true. Natsume shifted gingerly and rose up on his knees, his fists resting on his thighs. "Can I . . . Is it okay if I sit up instead?"

"Hm? Well, that's fine, but this will take a while to finish. Don't you think you'd be more comfortable lying down?"

"I'd rather sit," Natsume said, trying to ignore how hot his face felt. On second thought, he stood and crossed the room, then knelt at the table, recrossing his arms to rest his chin on. He kept his back to Natori the entire time. "It's fine like this, right?"

Again, Natori was quiet for a long time. Then Natsume heard a sigh and another rustle of clothes. He felt Natori settle behind him and wondered what sort of expression he wore. He didn't want to check.

The brush's return sent another shiver over Natsume's skin, but Natori didn't pull back this time. The strokes were quicker now, less meditative. Angry? Natsume pressed his cheek into his forearm.

It was all right, if Natori was angry at him. Oddly, it would make him feel a little less guilty about this, about letting Natori go on writing the spell without telling him . . . without telling him anything. It felt wrong to do that--Natsume _knew_ it was wrong--but he couldn't find the words. Even if he could, he had a feeling Natori would hate him for it.

So he said nothing, and knelt over the table, and bit his lip, and tried to slow his breathing.

And the brush continued to flow down his back.

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno, I recently re-watched Kaidan.


End file.
